


Break the Ice

by withthekeyisking



Series: Sladick Fics [38]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Ice Skating, Developing Relationship, Figure Skater Dick Grayson, Good Slade Wilson, Hockey Player Slade Wilson, Hurt Dick Grayson, Injury Recovery, M/M, Past Injury, Strangers to Lovers, more tags def to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28830993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Dick's been sneaking in doubles when no one's there to chastise him for it. He knows Bruce would yell up a storm if he knew, but he misses being in the air for more than two milliseconds too much to stop.Slade Wilson, the Gotham City Jokers' Enforcer, knows absolutely jackshit about figure skating. But that doesn't make him immune to the way Dick looks on the ice.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Sladick Fics [38]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1307747
Comments: 53
Kudos: 250





	Break the Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Check Yourself](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19137922) by [Joverie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joverie/pseuds/Joverie), [meaninglessblah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah). 



> This fic takes place in the CY verse. You don’t technically need to have read that to understand this, but this’ll make a lot more sense if you have since it happens mostly concurrently, plus CY is very excellent and worth a million reads. So go do that.
> 
> This came about because there’s a scene early in CY that felt like it had Something Going On between Slade and Dick, and I couldn’t get it out of my head, and then Blah nudged me along, and so here we are!
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy XD

There's something incredibly peaceful about being the only person in the rink.

Everything is silent except for the sound of his skates cutting through the ice, his quiet breaths going in and out with trained evenness. No chatter to compete against his focus, no students or family members watching and judging.

Because oh, would they judge if they knew what he was doing. He can practically hear Bruce shouting in his head, see the look of fury and _fear_ that would take over his expression. He'd surely try to ban Dick from the ice for a while, his concern showing itself through rigid control.

That's always been Bruce's way, for better or worse. Too much force, not enough tact. Never understood why people wouldn't just listen to him, do as he said. Definitely never got past Jason's response to his attempt at control.

Dick pushes it from his head, refusing to ruminate like he has so many times in the past, and takes another casual loop around the rink. He picks up some speed, spins on the outside edge, jumps—

He's not in the air for very long, in the grand scheme of things, but it's beautiful nonetheless. Worlds above what he's been able to do these last few years. He's spent his _life_ on the ice, practically in skates before he could walk. Doubles used to be nothing to him, a move as easy as breathing, and now it takes all his focus.

Focus on landing right. Focus on the precision of his rotation. Focus on keeping it simple, not following the desire to do more, to push himself, get back to what he used to be—

If he wipes out again, it might take him off the ice for good. And he doesn't think he'd ever truly recover from that.

He knows how important it is, to be careful. How much is riding on this. And he'd _love_ to do this with Tim, with Damian, with his students, but Bruce would never allow it. It would only cause far more trouble, and Dick has no interest in fighting with Bruce and risking what he's built for himself.

So he skates in an empty rink at midnight, cherishing the hang time he gets from doing doubles and trying not to feel overwhelmingly jealous when he sees Tim pulling triples like it's nothing.

In the empty rink, it's easy to hear the echo of the door opening and slamming shut, and he almost fucks up his landing in his surprise. His heart thuds in his chest with brief, intense fear that this is it, he's messed up again and it's going to be _over_ just like that, before catching himself and just barely sticking it.

He runs through a breathing exercise his parents taught him way back when, working through the lingering anxiety, and turns towards the door to see who's joining him at freaking _midnight_ on a Tuesday.

The man is large, Dick can tell even from the distance, with white hair and some kind of duffle bag thrown over his shoulder. He must know Dick is looking at him, but he pays the skater no mind, walking down the steps and then depositing his bag on the bench right up front and sitting down, pulling out a pair of skates.

He glances up at Dick briefly and drawls, "Don't stop on my account."

Dick hesitates. The guy looks vaguely familiar, but his size and age definitely disqualify him from being in the figure skating circles. Hockey player, then, considering the rink Dick's using all but belongs to the Gotham City Jokers. He probably won't have a single clue what Dick's doing, let alone that Dick shouldn't be doing it at _all._ It should be safe to keep going. Having to share the rink is a bit of a letdown, but it's a big place and it's not like he needs the entirety of it to do his doubles.

So Dick turns away, vaguely keeping an ear out as he begins to skate again, taking off into precise doubles and pretending that he doesn't wish he could do more.

He hears the man take to the ice, the sharp noise of a hockey stick batting a puck back and forth. He looks over, watching the man pull his stick back and swing, snapping the puck forward into the waiting goal. There's a small bag—not the duffle from before—slung across his side, and he immediately pulls another puck out of it, dropping it to the ice and taking off with it, cradling it like he did the last one and then shooting. It strikes perfectly in the center of the goal just like the last.

Dick watches him repeat the process once more, slightly curious about the precision of it, and realizes that he's definitely done for the night. His concentration is shot, and tiredness is beginning to set in now that he's not in constant motion.

He skates over to the edge of the rink and steps off the ice, immediately snapping the sheathes onto his blades as he walks towards where his stuff waits for him.

He grimaces when he removes his right skate, his ankle throbbing faintly. It's a familiar, old pain, his body protesting his actions, but he knows by now this ache is just part of the injury he got years ago; if something were _actually_ wrong, it would hurt a hell of a lot more than it does now. Same way his arm aches when it's humid.

Luckily, figure skating boots are high and have adjustable laces, which definitely provides a good amount of support, especially when doing things he shouldn't be doing.

The man doesn't acknowledge his departure, continuing on with his shots, and Dick slips out of the building, opening the bottle of Advil waiting in his bag and downing a pair of them dry.

* * *

The next time Dick goes to the rink in the middle of the night to sneak in some doubles, the man is already there.

Dick blinks at him in surprise, eyebrows furrowing. Is this going to become a regular thing, then? He won't have to use Cobblepot's rink forever, so this is only a temporary issue, but he really had been getting used to having the place to himself.

Still, never one to be deterred by a wrench in the plan, Dick heads down to the ice, pulling his skates out of his bag and beginning to lace them up, watching the man while he does so.

He doesn't know much about hockey, really. He's picked up a little from the rare occasions Damian is excited enough to ramble a bit, seen pieces of a practice here or there simply by virtue of sharing a rink with a professional team, but he couldn't possibly guess what the man is currently doing. The swerving way he's moving is impressive for someone of his size; Dick keeps waiting for the guy to topple onto his side, but he keeps moving, slapping the puck around in a maneuver Dick couldn't possibly put a name to.

About half of the rink is still wide open, so Dick steps onto the ice, gliding across it. It's freshly set by the Zamboni, and Dick smiles as he makes the first cuts through it. There's something so wonderful about being the first on a clean rink, and Dick imagines he's not the only one who feels that way. He wouldn't be surprised if people often come here late, though the hockey player currently on the rink with him is the first person Dick's ever run into.

Dick streaks across the ice, making sure to stay on his half of the rink and give the man his space. He doesn't try for any jumps right away, instead taking the time to do a couple laps, use the familiar motions and peace he usually finds on the ice to push the stressors of the day from his mind.

He got into an argument with Bruce. Again. All he wants is to help Tim, to allow the younger skater to reach his full potential, but Bruce is...extremely rigid in what he will and will not allow Tim to do. He's never lost that paranoia that formed after what happened to Dick.

Dick doesn't think he, himself, will ever lose the guilt he feels over that. It's because of him that Jason got stifled and ended up leaving. It's his fault that Tim's getting coddled now. If he hadn't wiped out, none of this would happen.

He breathes out some of the stress, attempting to push it behind him. There's nothing to be done about it now, no changing Bruce's mind, especially not in the middle of the night. For now, all he can do is try to enjoy himself at least a little before he has to go back to doing nothing more than singles for the next few days.

Dick picks up momentum, streaking across the ice and cutting across the center, moving fluidly into a jump, a smile coming immediately to his face as he's in the air for a few precious moments before landing on the outside edge of his skate and gliding across the rink, allowing his eyes to slip shut for just a second, basking in the feeling before going again.

It isn't until another fifteen minutes have passed that he realizes there's no longer the sound of another pair of skates on the ice, no more snap of a hockey stick or swoosh of a puck hitting net.

He curves around, looking to the other side of the rink, and blinks in surprise when he sees the man still on the ice but leaning against the barrier, watching.

The man doesn't look embarrassed at having been caught, instead simply calling out, "Not half bad."

Dick's lips quirk up, amused. He glides casually closer, hands propped loosely on his hips. "Thanks," he replies wryly. "That's what I was aiming for, really. Not half bad."

The man doesn't smile, but there's something in his eyes that sparks with humor. Dick can't quite tell if it's at him or with him, but the man doesn't seem antagonistic.

"Shouldn't you be doing pretty jumps like that in front of an audience?"

Dick ignores the dry tone, laughing instead. "That? Not exactly competition worthy; it was just a few doubles."

The man hums and says nothing, looking him over. Dick's used to people looking at him—his sport kind of requires it, especially to the level he reached—so he only cocks an eyebrow, waiting. When the man meets his gaze again, he smirks, completely unashamed. It makes Dick snort.

"Are you on the Jokers?" he asks. Up close he can see that the man is definitely older, at least in his late thirties, which Dick is pretty sure is past what professional hockey players tend to be. There are a couple stand outs, of course, but odds aren't good.

Nonetheless, the man nods, offering his hand to shake. "Slade Wilson."

Ah, that explains it. Dick _definitely_ knows the name—Slade Wilson is pretty well respected across the board, and has been playing professionally for _decades._ Dick might not be someone who watches hockey, but even he knows this is one of the best there is.

Plus, his daughter Rose is on Steph's roller derby team. He's met her a couple times; a good kid, just a little sharp around the edges. Dick can see that she takes after her father somewhat in features.

He takes the offered hand, shaking it. "Dick Grayson."

Slade nods, and Dick can't tell if that's recognition or not. It's not like Dick expects a life-long hockey player to be familiar with figures, but Dick's always surprised by who knows him versus doesn't. Most at least vaguely recognize him from the Olympics.

"There a reason you're here in the middle of the night doing 'just a few doubles'?" Slade asks, cocking his head.

Dick hesitates. It's not like this is someone who will actually care, if he says why he's here. But if it gets back to Bruce in any way...

"Why are you?" he challenges instead of actually answering.

Slade snorts, but doesn't press against the deflection. "I like the ambiance," he says, a non-answer right back.

Amusement rises in Dick's chest. "Of course."

Neither of them say anything for a moment, and then Slade nods back towards the open space of the rink. "Weren't you in the middle of something?"

"Weren't you?"

"That gonna be a theme with you?" Slade asks, eyebrows raised. "Answering a question with the same goddamn question?"

Dick tries to suppress his smile. "I don't know, is it a habit for you?"

Slade shakes his head at him, not in response to the question. "Go on, kid. Keep going."

Dick blinks in surprise. Stupidly, he says, "You like to watch?" and then regrets it instantly, cheeks reddening.

Slade smirks, a little sharp. "It's a pleasure to watch you move, Grayson."

"I meant figure skating," Dick says, looking everywhere except at Slade in his embarrassment. His face feels very warm. "You enjoy watching figure skating?"

"No, not really," Slade answers easily, immediately. "Now are you gonna skate or not?"

Dick opens his mouth to say...something, but absolutely nothing comes to mind, so instead he snaps his jaw shut and pushes off, trying to ignore the feeling of Slade's eyes on him as he picks up in speed and once again jumps, spinning tightly twice in the air before landing flawlessly and gliding across the ice.

He doesn't hesitate to keep going, a part of him preening when he catches sight of Slade out of the corner of his eye, the man's gaze fixed on him. His heart beats just a little bit faster.

"Damn, kid," Slade says when Dick eventually draws to a stop, his ankle aching in a way that tells him it's time to pack it in for the night.

Dick gives a crooked smile. "You should see the stuff I used to be able to do. Now _that_ was impressive."

Slade hums. "I don't know," he says, and then nothing else.

Dick rubs the back of his neck a little awkwardly, unsure where to go from here. "I should...get going."

Slade pushes off from the barrier, stick back in hand as he heads over to the goal and the waiting pucks inside. "See you next time, Grayson."

* * *

The next time Dick sees Slade isn't in the empty rink in the middle of the night, but instead right after he's wrapped up his class with the Titans, sending all the kids on their way with bright smiles and an innocent excitement that Dick remembers from being that age. Slade's exiting the Jokers' locker room as Dick passes it, almost in full gear except for his helmet, which hangs from a hand.

"Grayson," Slade greets, pausing for a moment to face Dick. "Just get finished?"

Dick nods. "Just heading in?"

"Hundredth practice of the week," Slade confirms dryly. "Playoffs in about a month. You should come _watch."_

Dick's cheeks warm at the teasing despite himself. "Hardy har har, you're hysterical. Should I expect you to keep bringing that up from now on?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

Slade smirks. "On whether or not you keep blushing when I do."

Dick rolls his eyes, turning away to continue on towards the door. "Have a good practice."

"I'll see you at the next one, kid."

* * *

As much as Dick wishes he could prove the man wrong, Slade does, in fact, see Dick at the next practice of the Jokers.

He and Tim are finishing on the ice as the hockey team begins gathering in the stands, waiting for time to be up so they can take to the rink. Some of them are calling out eye roll worthy comments, things that he and Tim are practiced at ignoring, and this time Dick actually notices when a rough voice snaps at the others to shut up, which is, for the most part, listened to.

Dick glances over to the source and sees Slade sitting a few rows up, sprawled comfortably as he waits for his practice to begin. He offers Dick a nod when he sees him looking, and Dick turns his attention quickly back to Tim, putting his head back in the game to finish up their session strong.

The Jokers don't hesitate to clamber onto the ice when the clock switches to the next hour, and Dick and Tim get off the ice, heading to their stuff to pack up.

"I'm gonna go meet Steph," Tim tells him, and Dick smiles and nods, waving him off. He always feels just the slightest bit guilty after practices with Tim, seeing the frustration the boy feels from time to time. He tries to remind himself that he's doing all he can, that he's doing his best to convince Bruce, but sometimes...

"Stickin' around this time?"

Dick startles, turning. Slade's standing in the gate just a few feet away, arms folded loosely across his chest. "I—what?"

Slade cocks an eyebrow at him. "All that spinning must be getting to your head. Take a seat, Grayson. Watch for a while." Then he steps out onto the ice, skating over to his teammates.

Dick hesitates, glances towards the door that Tim is currently slipping out of, and then slowly sits down on the bench beside his bag. He doesn't have anywhere to be; sometimes he meets up with Bruce after practices, but that's not a _mandatory_ thing. He can...stick around, for a little while.

Hockey practices are, obviously, _nothing_ like figures. Dick finds himself cringing every few minutes as the team works on their checks, bodies slamming against each other over and over again, the sick sound of them then crashing against the ice. Dick's no stranger to hitting the ice—when you're first learning, you definitely go down quite a lot—but this is in an entirely different _league_ than what Dick's experienced.

He sees Jason amongst them, a wide grin on his face that Dick recognizes and misses. He sees Jason from time to time, but it's nothing like when they were younger. After that big blow up with Bruce— No, Jason didn't really talk to any of them anymore. Now the only times they see each other are times like this, where they simply end up in the same place at the same time.

Jason is not, however, where the majority of his attention rests right now. Slade is in full force, his job as a defenseman putting him front and center during this practice. He's calm and collected the entire time, showing no signs of tiring or pain, and brushes off any remarks from his teammates—mostly Jason, really—with barely a blink.

Like Dick noticed that night on the rink, Slade moves impressively fast for someone that huge. He has to be at least 6'5" and weigh well over two hundred pounds, almost all of that muscle, and yet he moves smoothly across the ice, slamming into people like a tank and then moving on like it's nothing.

It's impressive, Dick can definitely admit that. He might not know a lot about hockey, but he can certainly tell that Slade is damn good at it. He earned his rep.

Eventually the practice ends, and the players file off the ice, shoving each other in a way that seems good-natured to Dick, all of them headed towards the locker room to presumably shower and get changed. Slade breaks off from them, ignoring the player who calls out to him, and approaches Dick, leaning against the side of the rink as he faces the younger man.

"So how many times did you flinch?" Slade asks.

Dick's eyebrows shoot up. "And why do you assume I flinched at all? I've seen some awful drops to the ice in the past with figures."

"Not like this," Slade disagrees, very sure of himself, and, well, he's not wrong. Dick's seen some bad, _bad_ falls in the past—experienced one, even—but the sheer speed at which these men slammed into each other, the force, the way the ice cracked underneath their weight as they dropped hard—it's something else entirely.

And here Slade stands, not even breathing heavily, completely composed. Like he didn't just spend an hour in intensive training, throwing himself bodily at other people.

"Not like this," Dick concedes. "You're really good at this. I see why you have the reputation you do. I can't imagine...doing _any_ of that."

Slade chuckles, and when Dick cocks a brow, he explains, "I'd love to see the look on the guys' faces if they walked out onto the ice and saw you waiting for them, hoping to act as a defenseman. The idea of you trying to body check..." He looks Dick up and down with a dubious eye, but the curve of his lips tells Dick that it's coming from a place of humor. "It's unlikely, kid."

"Well now I have to prove you wrong," Dick says loftily, and laughs when that statement immediately makes Slade snort. "What, you doubt me? I could totally do it. That'll be my second career—from figure skating to professional hockey player."

"Somehow, I don't see that happening."

Dick hums, leaning back on his hands, smiling. "There's precedent, it could happen."

Slade knows his meaning. "Todd's _built,_ kid. You look like I could snap you in half with my pinky."

Dick's eyes drift down the length of Slade's arms, seeing the proof of that. His jersey might be long-sleeved, but it's still easy to tell the muscle that lives beneath it. And as that performance on the ice just showed, none of that muscle is just for show. There's real strength there. It's...appealing. There's a lot about Slade that's appealing, really.

Slade is smirking when Dick finally lifts his gaze again, and Dick doesn't even feel embarrassed this time, simply smirking back. "There a reason you wanted me to stay to watch you practice, Slade?"

"Dunno, kid. There a reason you stayed?"

Dick snorts at the deflection, amused despite himself. It seems the question thing _is_ going to be a running theme between them.

"I'm gonna get going," he says, getting to his feet. He hoists his bag onto his shoulder, and then offers Slade a final smile. "It was really cool to watch, by the way."

Slade inclines his head. "See y'round, Grayson."

* * *

Dick scowls down at his ankle, rubbing against the soreness, trying to will it to stop aching. He's only _just_ arrived at the rink, had been looking forward to getting some time in, and then one awkward step down the stairs and his ankle's decided it's the end of the world.

He's fine, he really is. No damage done. He didn't fuck himself up any further, thank god. It just hurts, and there's not a chance he can go on the ice like this.

Muttering curses under his breath, Dick heads back out of the rink, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket and glaring down at the ground. He pushes the front door open and _slams_ into what feels like a brick wall.

He wheels back, panic lodging in his chest as he begins to fall, and then something like a steal band wraps around his middle and steadies him on his feet.

Dick takes a few moments to breath and take in the state of himself—just the throbbing that was already there, nothing new—before he realizes that the steal band and brick wall are still very close, and very warm, and—

Dick's head snaps up, eyes wide, and he finds Slade staring down at him with a smirk. And it really is _down,_ because damn is Slade taller than him. At 5'10", Dick is solidly average in height, but Slade is—definitely not. He's _gigantic._ The top of Dick's head barely reaches the other man's chin. And his _arms_ are— With just a t-shirt on right now, Slade's arms are on full display, and what a fucking display it is.

Jesus. He needs to calm down.

"T-thanks," he stutters out. Slade is still holding him in place, despite the fact that Dick's now solidly on his feet. "I...didn't see you there."

"Grayson," Slade greets, amused. He looks like he knows exactly what's going through Dick's head. "You should watch where you're going."

Dick clears his throat, nodding, and tries to draw back. Slade lets him go—and Dick is under no illusion, it really is _lets_ him go—his arm sliding around Dick's waist before dropping.

"There a reason you're leaving so early?" Slade asks when Dick continues to fail to say anything. It's late by anyone else's definition, nearing eleven at night, but certainly early for Dick's usual sneak time on the ice.

"I...yeah, I'm not..." Dick grimaces, unsure exactly what to say. Settles on a vague, "Just not happening tonight."

Slade looks at him appraisingly. He seems unimpressed with Dick's answer, but doesn't press for a better one. Instead he says, "Come on," nodding his head away from the rink, and starts to walk away.

Dick blinks after him for a moment, startled, and then starts to follow for lack of anything better to do.

Slade leads him to his car and opens the passenger door for him, rounding to the other side as Dick climbs in. "Where are we going?" he asks, trying to ignore the fact that he just got into the car with a virtual stranger, as Slade turns the ignition.

"To get something to eat."

"It's like eleven, what place is even going to be _open_ this late?"

The corner of Slade's mouth ticks up. "No five star restaurants, if that's what you're hoping for, kid."

Dick snorts and lets the subject drop, settling back into his seat. Slade's car is nice, which is probably to be expected considering he's on a million-dollar salary. He drives with one hand propped on top of the steering wheel and the other relaxed along the line of the window, unconcerned as he drives one-handed.

"Bon appetit," Slade says dryly when they eventually pull to a stop, and Dick can't help but laugh when he sees that they're in a McDonald's parking lot. He gets out of the car without a word, still chuckling faintly as he follows Slade inside.

The look on the poor cashier's face when he sees Slade approaching the counter almost makes Dick lose it; he can't be out of his teen years, still baby-faced and pimpled, and he looks absolutely _terrified_ as 6'5" Slade Wilson comes to stand in front of him, absolutely _towering_ over him.

Slade's placid expression doesn't shift in the slightest as he orders, but Dick can feel his amusement anyway, and Dick works to keep his under control as well as Slade is.

When they've both ordered and received their food, Slade leads them over to a table in the back and they sit down. Dick can't remember the last time he ate McDonald's or other places like it, and he immediately digs in, feeling some of the tension that had been clinging to his shoulders loosen.

"You come here often?" Dick asks curiously, popping a fry into his mouth.

Without missing a beat or even looking up at him from where he's unwrapping his burger, Slade says, "Oldest line in the book, Grayson. You want to pick me up you'll have to do a lot better than that."

A startled laugh escapes Dick. He leans back in his chair and says, "That's not what I—oh, whatever. You're such an ass."

Slade smirks, gaze flicking up to lock onto his. "I think this is the part where I compliment yours instead."

It takes Dick a moment to understand what Slade's saying, and then he snorts, a crooked smile crawling across his face. "And you think _I'm_ the one that has to do better? God, the amount of times someone's commented on my ass. If I had a _nickel_ for every time, I'd—well, I'd be as rich as _you."_

"And yet," Slade says, smirk widening, "it really needs repeating, kid."

"Stop calling me that," Dick says. "I'm twenty-six, I'm not a kid. It's just weird."

"And I'm forty-nine; anyone younger than forty is a kid to me."

Twenty-three years older, wow. Slade is more than an entire person who can drink older than Dick is. That's not... _off-putting,_ it's just kind of startling to be confronted with. He'd known, in an abstract kind of way, that Slade was one of the oldest in the hockey league, but that didn't really come with a number. And he'd known that Slade had relatively grown children, but that was...

Okay, maybe he hadn't put too much thought into it. It's not like he's seen a lot of Slade, after all. They've only actually met, what, three times? Four? The few times Slade popped into his head outside of that he wasn't exactly wondering about his _age._

"You look like your brain just stopped working," Slade says dryly. "What, were you hoping I'd max out at thirty-five? Sorry, Grayson, but I have a son only three years younger than you."

"No," Dick says stubbornly. "It just caught me off guard, and—" Slade's words catch up to him, and he blinks. "Wait a minute, that—that doesn't _bug_ you at all? That you have a _son_ who is only _three years younger_ than the guy whose ass you're admiring?"

"Should it?" Slade asks carelessly, tossing an onion ring into his mouth. "You're a grown man, aren't you?"

"I—well, yeah—"

"Excellent, then as a grown man to another grown man, I'm going to continue ogling your ass anytime you turn around or wear those tight pants you do when you skate."

Dick opens his mouth to say _something,_ but absolutely nothing comes out. He's not unfamiliar with being hit on—growing up in the spotlight will get you accustomed to it, especially with the outfits they wear for routines—but Slade has a way of saying it that is so matter-of-fact that's very different than what he's used to. Slade, himself, is also _very_ different from the types Dick is used to having come onto him. All of it combines to have Dick feeling slightly off-kilter.

It is not, necessarily, a _bad_ feeling. Just...new. And maybe new is _good._

"Is that why you like to watch me skate?" Dick asks, attempting to recover and act like he'd never faltered in the first place. "To _ogle?"_

"Part of it," Slade says, completely unashamed, and Dick chuckles. "But watching you on the ice—" He shakes his head. "You're a sight to see, kid. I might not know much about what you do but I've been on the ice almost all my life and I can spot someone who's much the same. How long you been doin' this, Grayson?"

"My parents told me I was on the ice before I could walk," Dick says with a small smile, a little stunned by Slade's statement. It makes his chest feel tight.

Slade hums, nodding. "I'd believe it. The way you move, kid. It's somethin' else."

Dick looks down, smiling at the table. Longing hits him hard, the desire to be what he once was, what he was before he wiped out. He misses it so badly sometimes he can barely _breathe,_ has nights where he struggles to find meaning in anything without it. That's a lot less frequent than it used to be, he's in a far better place than he was six or four or even two years ago, but it still happens. He figures it always will, in some form or another.

Being on the ice in even the limited capacity he can be now helps. And it will simply have to be enough.

"Why aren't you at the rink tonight, Grayson?" Slade asks.

Dick takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I, uh—I guess you don't know about it, but I—when I was twenty, I...wiped out. _Hard._ Dislocated my ankle, broke both bones in my left arm, and then slammed my head against the ice to finish it all off with a nasty concussion. It ended my career. Almost took me off the ice for good. Now I just..."

He trails off, and picks up his soda just for something to do.

"You aren't supposed to be doing what you're doing, are you?" Slade says far too knowingly.

"No," Dick confesses. He looks up at the older man with a grimace. "Doubles are—I mean, the moves you've seen me doing—they're...they put more force on the ankle than singles or regular skating. Even doing singles at _all_ isn't something people thought I'd be able to do again, and so pushing it—" He presses his lips into a thin line. "God, Bruce would _kill_ me. If I wipe out again, that's _it._ And if that happens—"

He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

"So why do it?" Slade asks, without judgement.

Dick smiles, wide and real. "Because it's like _flying."_

One corner of Slade's mouth curves upward. He pushes to his feet, shoving the remains of their food back into the bag. "Alright, kid. Let's go."

Dick blinks, surprised at the sudden change. "Where are we going now?"

"You'll see," Slade says. "Move it, Grayson."

Dick rolls his eyes but gets to his feet all the same, grabbing his soda as he follows Slade back out to the parking lot.

And then regrets that action ten minutes later when Slade parks right back outside Cobblepot's rink, turning the car off and stepping out.

Dick glares at him, refusing to do the same, even when Slade opens his door to move him along.

"What the hell?" Dick asks. "Slade I just _told_ you why I can't. And my ankle was really acting up; the _last_ thing I need is to be on the ice right now."

"You're not setting one foot on the ice," Slade agrees. "That's not why we're here. Now come on, get out."

Still heavily suspicious but willing to trust for the moment, Dick undoes his seatbelt and steps out, heading back into the rink he'd only left half an hour ago in disappointment.

Slade leads him with familiarity, and they end up in the Jokers' locker room. It smells like sweat and boys, sending Dick immediately back to his high school days and making him wrinkle his nose. Slade is, of course, completely immune, and he immediately moves down through the row of lockers before stopping at one and opening it, then beginning to pull pieces of gear out of it.

"What are we doing here, Slade?" Dick asks, only more confused than he was before.

"Here, put this on," Slade says, and tosses him a hockey helmet. Dick bleats, surprised, and fumbles to catch it, glaring at Slade's laughing face when he manages it.

"What the hell, Slade?"

"Put it on," Slade repeats, still chuckling, and seems satisfied with everything he's grabbed because he shuts the locker and heads back towards the door, a few things tucked under his arm.

Dick does not, in fact, put the helmet on, but he does keep hold of it as he walks after Slade, his confusion not lessening in the slightest when they end up rink-side.

"Slade—"

 _"Relax,_ Grayson," Slade says, not even looking at him as he sets the stuff down. "I already told you. Now is that helmet on?"

Dick makes a face down at the item in his hands, but follows the instruction, lifting it to his head. It immediately draws a quiet laugh out of him, how _big_ it is on his head. It makes him feel like a kid trying on his father's shoes, and he shakes his head from side to side just to feel it wiggle in a moment of child-like joy.

Slade turns back to face him and raises an eyebrow when he sees what Dick's doing, but Dick just grins back at him. "This is _gigantic."_

Slade snorts and steps forward. He grabs the end of the chin strap and loops it into place, tightening it until it settles firmly against Dick's skins. He puts his hands to either side of the helmet and shakes it a little, testing, which just makes Dick snort, still grinning.

"Good enough," Slade says, and Dick looks up at him awkwardly through his hair and the helmet, wondering what the plan is here.

Slade sits down on the bench and begins pulling on his skates, lacing them up quickly from years of familiarity. Then he turns to Dick again and says, "Alright, come here."

Dick steps forward hesitantly, and lets out a shout when Slade wraps an arm around his back and lifts him off his feet, other hand grabbing Dick's thigh and manhandling him into position.

"What the _fuck—"_

"Wrap your legs around my waist," Slade grunts and, when Dick only looks at him incredulously, barks, _"Grayson."_

"No, what the fuck?" Dick barks right back. He tries to wiggle out of the man's hold, but he's got him pretty firmly held in place, his feet dangling off the ground, his chest pressed right against Slade's. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Kid," Slade says, a touch more level than before, "it's gonna be fine. Just trust me for five seconds, and wrap your legs around my waist."

Dick stares at him, wide-eyed, and then hesitantly lifts his legs and curls them into place, ankles hooking in the small of Slade's back. The man adjusts his hold on Dick, and Dick tightens his legs in response, helping unconsciously with the hold.

All of it makes Dick swallow. The absolutely effortless way Slade picked him up, and now how they're lined up...

"Now don't panic," Slade says, which immediately makes Dick want to panic.

"Wait, Slade, what are you—?"

He cuts off with a gasp when Slade steps onto the ice and glides away from the gate in one smooth motion. A strangled noise escapes Dick, and his arms wrap around Slade's neck, his legs clenching around his middle. Slade grunts when Dick's helmet knocks against his head, but Dick figures maybe he deserves the small amount of pain for nearly giving Dick a heart attack.

"Relax," Slade says. "I told you, you're not setting foot on the ice."

"This is a shitty loophole," Dick hisses back. "What are you even _doing?"_

"Tuck your head," Slade advises, and Dick's heart starts to pound.

"What...?"

"Tuck your head," Slade repeats slowly, over-enunciating. "C'mon Grayson; you've come this far. Might as well find out what the fuck I'm doing."

Dick presses his lips into a thin line, but acquiesces, tucking his head down into the curve of Slade's neck and closing his eyes. The presence of the helmet is a little terrifying, wondering what it could mean, but he has barely any time to think about it before Slade is in _motion._

Dick sucks in a sharp breath, entire body tensing as Slade takes off across the ice. It's like going from zero to sixty, Slade picking up speed at an impressive rate until Dick can feel them cutting through the air, hear the slice of the ice beneath them as Slade carves into it.

And it's...

Fucking _awesome._

Dick can't get up to speeds like this anymore, if he ever could. When you try to reach a point that Slade has reached so effortlessly, you're putting a lot of force down on your ankles over and over and over again and it's—it's not something his can take.

He was never a speed skater, so this hasn't been something he's been pining over like being in the air, but it's still—wow, it's still amazing. He only realizes he's grinning when his face starts to hurt from how wide it is.

Slade loops around and around effortlessly, his pace never failing, his grip on Dick not faltering a single inch. And Dick finds himself relaxing into him, the tension sliding away as he clings and lets himself enjoy the speed.

Dick barely even notices when they begin to slow, and doesn't bother shifting at all when he finally feels them draw to a stop, the sudden shift of stepping onto concrete instead of ice.

Slade lowers him slowly, giving Dick time to get his legs underneath him before stepping back. He sits down to pull off his skates, and Dick reaches up to release the chin strap of the helmet but finds his fingers are shaking and he can't quite manage it.

Slade glances up at him and frowns, then stands to help, undoing the strap in one quick motion and pulling off the helmet.

"You good?" he asks, and Dick nods dazedly.

"Yeah," Dick says, slightly breathless. "Yeah, I—I'm good. I...I haven't gone that fast in—in a while."

The look in Slade's eyes is knowing. "It's a rush."

Dick nods immediately. "It really is. Wow. I don't think I ever...I wasn't a speed skater, so I didn't put a lot of time into—but that was amazing. Thank you, Slade."

One side of Slade's mouth crooks up. "'Course, kid."

The walk back to the locker room is silent save for their breathing, but Dick's still smiling, feeling aglow.

After the equipment is back in Slade's locker, Dick can't help but ask, "How were you sure you could do that? I'm a lot more weight than you're used to, how did you know you could keep control at that speed?"

Slade snorts. "Grayson, you're like, what, one-seventy? One-eighty?"

Dick snorts right back. "Just about."

"Like lifting a sack of potatoes."

Dick laughs and punches Slade's arm. Slade doesn't even pretend that that felt like anything more than a delicate tap to him. "Alright, tough guy, so that whole thing was nothing for you."

Slade glances at him with a cocked brow. "Well," he drawls, "your _weight_ was nothing. Getting my hands all over you? That part was pretty good."

Dick smiles crookedly and glances away. They push outside the rink, and Dick breathes in the cold night air, trying to come down from the rush that's still buzzing through him.

"This was wonderful," Dick murmurs. "I should get going, but—but this was amazing, Slade."

Slade looks down at him, something like a smile on his face, and says, "'Till next time, kid."

* * *

"How's your hand?" Slade asks as he sits down on the bench beside him.

Dick grimaces, flexing his fingers. His knuckles are red with faint bruising, but the swelling is minimal after having iced it for a while. There's no actual damage; he's just fine.

"I'll live." He turns to meet the older man's gaze. "Thank you," he says honestly. "For stepping in. You..." He huffs a quiet laugh. "Jason was pissed. And you stopped him from laying me out. So, thank you."

"I'm the Jokers' fine master, it's my job to keep the team in line," Slade tells him.

"So you were just doing your job."

"That's right."

Dick smiles. "You're so full of shit."

Slade side-eyes him. "Don't be getting sentimental on me now, Grayson."

"Oh, perish the thought."

Dick shouldn't have punched Jason; there was no version of that scenario that was going to end well. But Jason had been saying so many things, had been yelling and passionate and then he'd blamed him for everything that went wrong and—

And Dick's fist was in the air before he was even consciously aware of it.

It was a solid punch, at least. Probably didn't hurt Jason much, brick house that he is, but it snapped his head to the side and Dick didn't break his hand, so it's better than it could've been.

And the look on Jason's face after he'd done it—the pure rage, the way he drew himself up to be bigger, stepping towards Dick...God, that would've hurt, if Jason was given the chance to actually hit him. Lay him out, really. Instead...

Instead Slade was suddenly _there._ An arm around Jason's neck, throwing the man to the ground. The fucking _noise_ Jason made when he hit the ice—Dick doesn't think he'll ever forget it, or the way Slade looked standing above him, the burning cold look on his face as he told Jason to _stay down._

"I mean it," Dick says softly, catching Slade's eye. "Thanks for stepping in, Slade. I appreciate it, and I'm sure Jason does, too. You know he would've regretted it the moment he did it."

Slade nods, but whether it's in agreement or simply acceptance of the statement, Dick isn't sure.

There's a lot, Dick realizes, that he doesn't actually _know_ about Slade. He knows he's a life-long hockey player, has three kids, is divorced, likes onion rings, gives a shit about people despite his extremely unaffected exterior, but that's—that's about it. And he...he finds that he really wants to know more.

"Would you like to go out with me?" Dick asks, running his hand through his hair to push it back when it falls in his face. "Like, on an actual date?"

Slade raises an eyebrow. "What, so you're not counting cheap burgers and a quick loop on the ice as a real date?"

Dick smiles crookedly. "I'm gonna take that as a yes."

Slade rolls his eyes, but nods all the same, lips curving up. "Yeah, Grayson. I think I can take you on a proper date."

Dick beams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Blah for putting up with my incessant questioning about the characters in their fic, and helping me so much with this!
> 
> Thanks for reading Chapter 1 of my fic everbody :) If you haven't already read [Check Yourself](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19137922/chapters/45483154), do yourself a favor and go do that immediately XD

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Icing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29384160) by [Offendedfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Offendedfish/pseuds/Offendedfish)




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